


Unbind, Rewind

by JustSimpleThings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amputation, Amputee!Sherlock, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Dysphoria, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Caring John, Childish Sherlock, Depressed Sherlock, Dubious Science, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Roller Coaster, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Sherlock, John is a Saint, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Massage, Mutual Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rimming, Serious Injuries, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock's Violin, Temper Tantrums, Top John Watson, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 13:50:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3122537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustSimpleThings/pseuds/JustSimpleThings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has managed to destroy Moriarty's network, but he paid a steep price for his victory. After his return, he intends to cut John out of his life for good, believing that he is doing what is best for his friend. So why does John have to be so infuriatingly patient, persistent and... good?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unbind, Rewind

**Author's Note:**

> I am forever indebted to my wonderful beta's: Taylar and Hetty. Thank you for sticking with me, even though this fanfic took me ridiculously long to publish...   
> You are awesome!

 

John felt his blood boil as he walked toward 221B Baker Street. He had promised himself that he wouldn’t do it – he would not do Sherlock the favour of… the favour of… putting himself there, right in front of him, facilitating his apology, explanation, consolation-speech – whatever Sherlock had prepared to make John forget that he had been gone for two years!

Two goddamn years and what does John get after mourning him, standing over his grave every Sunday and bringing him flowers… what does he get? Sherlock doesn’t even deem him worthy of a personal visit! If it wasn’t for a fucking article in Times magazine (Times magazine for fuck’s sake) John wouldn’t have even known about his return.

Sherlock had not given any interviews, of course. Why would he? But John had hoped that at least to him… at least to him Sherlock would explain some things.

Starting with the question which was tearing John apart: the big WHY of it. Why did he resort to faking his own death? And why did he leave John behind? Hell, even if he had his reasons for that – why not inform him at least – so he wouldn’t have had to fucking grieve for the better part of two years and find himself a new therapist and re-think and re-structure his whole damn life and damn near give up a couple of times in the process!

 

Oh he was beyond furious. Sherlock Holmes was going to see him, whether he wanted to deal with him or not, no matter how busy he was or if he had a case. John did not give a damn about it.

He was so lost in his anger that he almost marched straight past his old flat. He might have, was it not for the black car parked in front of it and the man currently exiting the building, umbrella in hand.

‘Mycroft!’

Mycroft looked troubled for a moment, then he managed to soothe his features into his usual mask, but seemed a bit tighter – more forced-looking than usual.

‘Ah, John’ He said, nodding his head almost imperceptibly. ‘Always a pleasure to see you.’

'Shut up,' His voice cracked slightly as he spoke, all his hurt and anger welling up in him, 'You must have known. You must have decided not to tell me… even though you knew and yet you still lied to my face!'

John became so angry, he had to look away to distract himself from the desire to punch the man standing in front of him.

Mycroft's face broke into a small, wistful smile.

'It wasn't all pretending. I've lost him too.'

‘Losing someone knowing he will be back is not the same as thinking he is bloody DEAD!’ John bellowed. At this point, he really did not give a damn about manners or pleasantries. Why wasn’t Sherlock down here yet? Why had he not come to him?

John started to shove his way past Mycroft, who was still standing in the way of the front door but the man did something completely unlike himself and attempted to block the door from John.

‘John, I think it might not be the best time…’

Behind him, the door creaked open and Sherlock’s face peeked through.

‘Let him, Mycroft. Now is as good a time as any. Do you have anything else to say to John? If not, might I suggest you leave, brother dearest?’ Sherlock’s tone of voice was chilly even compared to his usual one. If Mycroft felt anything he didn’t let it show, but he did walk to his car in a couple of long steps.

As John watched the car disappear, he felt stumped. His anger had evaporated momentarily at the sheer shock of seeing Sherlock. Yes, he had read the paper but part of him still couldn’t believe… that he was… that he was indeed alive. Alive and well. The snarky bastard.

Sherlock looked at him with a curious expression. John could not remember ever seeing this particular expression on his face. It was more insecure than usual, but still tightly controlled. It reminded John of Mycroft.

Sherlock was wearing his signature Belstaff and he was not inviting John in. He stood with one hand on the door, standing with one foot in and one out of the flat, and he did not look as if he was going to come any closer.

‘So?,’ John snapped at him finally. ‘What do you have to say for yourself?’

Sherlock pulled a grimace – that one was familiar, it was like he always did when he was sulking.

‘Technically, I do not have to say a thing. I thought my message was clear enough.’

John looked at him with growing suspicion, a chill slithering down his spine.

‘Your message being…?’

‘Nothing. I have absolutely nothing to say to you. It has been nice knowing you, but it had ended two years ago. Yeah, sorry I lied about being dead. Now that you are done with this obligatory round of guilt-trip – booh-hoo cruel Sherlock did not tell me he wasn’t dead – you may quench any sense of false obligation you might still feel and —‘

Sherlock could not continue because John had grabbed his hand – the one that was holding the door halfway open, - and shook him.

‘Are you out of your mind?’ He hissed, attempting to control his rapidly rising temper. ‘I have spent two years trying to get over your death… I grieved you, I thought about you every day for hours on end – and you tell me that our friendship hasn’t meant anything to you at all?’ John felt his anger transform into weariness. He could not believe what he was seeing and hearing even though his hand was still gripping Sherlock’s right hand. Sherlock shook him off, his face becoming even cooler.

‘I am sorry that I have placed mismatched assumptions into your head regarding our acquaintanceship.‘ John felt as if he was being doused in ice-cold water but Sherlock did not stop, he did not even pause in his monologue. ’I’ve considered you an adequate assistant, nothing more. If you would leave now, please, any time today, I would greatly appreciate…’

‘Fuck you!’ John shouted. His hands turned into fists. He had had enough of this whole situation – who was Sherlock to talk to him like that? Standing at the front door, on the bloody open street where people were already eyeing them, looking at John as if he was a raving lunatic.

Who was Sherlock Holmes not to even look him in the eye properly when he trampled all over his innermost feelings?

They were going to talk about this in detail. Whether Sherlock deemed he had time for it, or not.

Fuelled by his indignation, John grabbed Sherlock by both shoulders and started to manoeuvre them both inside. He tried to get a hold of Sherlock’s other hand and was mortified to find that he was unable to – all his hand could reach was the empty sleeve of the coat. Sherlock attempted to hide it and yanked himself away, but it was too late.

‘Let go of me!’ Sherlock hollered, and in his stupor, John let him. Sherlock did not take the time to close the door, so it was easy for John to chase after him, bounding after him up the stairs, into the flat (the flat he used to call home, the flat they had returned to like this countless times in the past…).

John stepped into the living room and looked up at Sherlock, who was standing next to the fireplace, one side purposefully pushed up against the mantelpiece.

 

‘No’ John was mildly surprised at his own strangled voice. He coughed, and tried to put more force into it.’ No. That’s not possible.’

Sherlock did not acknowledge his presence. He was looking at the carpet as if there was something exceptionally notable on it. The knowledge that Sherlock was just as rooted and despaired as he himself felt stirred John into action - he did not care that Sherlock may hit him, John needed to touch him – to know. To be sure...

He was extending his arm before Sherlock could react. Despite Sherlock’s struggles and attempts to push him away, John was able to touch his other shoulder again which caused a pool of dread to gather in his stomach. His left arm was missing from just below his shoulder.

‘Sherlock…’ John uttered as he stumbled away, letting his friend push him around as he wanted, all fight leaving him, as the evidence undermined his hopes and assumptions.

Sherlock’s lips were pressed into a tight white line and John almost didn’t catch what he said next as he spoke in a quiet, dangerous tone.

‘You have humiliated me sufficiently. Now get out.’

John looked up as he felt a sharp pain slice through his chest – how could Sherlock accuse him like this? How could he be so blind…?

‘Get out!’ Sherlock was shouting. Mrs Hudson must have heard that if she was still living here. John did not know what to do, but he felt bold, suddenly. He said the only thing which was on his mind, which made sense to him.

‘No.’ He said, planting his feet. ‘I am staying. You can’t drive me away.’ The dumb shock on Sherlock’s face added fuel to John’s determination. ‘You can call Mycroft and ask him to send his bodyguards to throw me out, but you can’t make me leave otherwise, so you will have to deal with it. I’m staying right here!’

Sherlock grabbed the mantelpiece so hard, his fingers began to whiten.

‘Why? Why would you…?’ He uttered, voice trailing off unsteadily.

He looked utterly lost. John wanted to step closer to him, to touch him, so he did. He clutched Sherlock’s intact arm and squeezed it reassuringly.

‘I don’t need your pity!’ Sherlock snarled as he turned to face away from John, but he didn’t shove him away this time. John stood his ground and kept his gaze on Sherlock’s profile.

‘Do you see any pity on me?’

John snapped at him and Sherlock turned his head back. He looked confused and his eyes narrowed. John felt an urge to protest, he hated that Sherlock could be so untrusting even with him. He clamped down his sadness and bewilderment and tried to articulate his thoughts as clearly as he could, so Sherlock would not miss their meaning.

‘I am livid with you Sherlock. At the moment, I am precariously close to leaving this flat and never stepping my foot in here ever again. But our friendship has meant – it still means a great deal to me, so I am not leaving until I am certain that you have meant the things you said and you genuinely don’t recognise what we had – what we could still have. Then I will leave. Does my answer satisfy you?’ John tightened his grip on Sherlock’s arm more than was necessary. Sherlock winced and hissed in slight pain, but John did not feel any remorse at the reaction – he had been hurt far more gravely since this conversation began. Since Sherlock did not come to him to bring the news of his return. Since Sherlock started pretending that he was dead. John was entitled to be angry despite his shock and sadness at Sherlock’s state.

Said detective was trembling under his fingers – John let him lean more against his own sturdy albeit short frame as he felt Sherlock’s resolve begin to crack. In a minute, he felt Sherlock begin to heave soundlessly. His body was wrecked with big, heaving sobs, but apart from his heavy breathing, he remained silent. John’s heart clenched.

‘It’s all going to be alright’ He uttered with a conviction he did not feel. ‘It’s all going to be alright…’

 

\--

 

‘Sherlock – I think we should talk.’

It took John five minutes to gather enough courage to speak. After Sherlock had calmed down somewhat, they have settled on the couch. Their bodies were not touching but they were close enough that John could feel Sherlock’s body heat. He took off his coat and encouraged Sherlock to do the same. After he had hung them he settled back and they stayed like that in silence.

John contemplated his duties. He would have to announce that he is ending his lease to his landlord. It is unnecessary to call the movers – he hardly had more possessions than he did when he moved in here for the first time. That was – what, four years ago? Christ, he has to get a life.

But first things first.

‘You don’t need to tell everything at once, but could you include me? Explain the basics, please?’ John hoped that Sherlock could hear the rawness in his voice. He was close to begging because he wanted to hold on to their momentarily peace but at the same time, he needed facts, anything to clear up the situation and ease his aching mind which demanded answers.

Sherlock moved a bit to turn towards him, but he avoided John’s eye.

‘There’s not much to tell. I was on an undercover mission, my quest was to find the links of Moriarty’s network one-by-one. To make sure you were all safe before I returned. I received a threat – had I not faked my death, everyone I knew would have been executed by Moriarty’s laymen. I underestimated one of them. ‘Sherlock said, smiling bitterly. ‘He got a good shot in, right into my left arm. Out in the Serbian wilderness, hospitals are hard to come by. Mycroft found me, but it took him two days – I had to tie my arm off to avoid bleeding to death. The damage was irreparable.’

‘How long ago did this happen?’ John asked.

‘Five months ago. It is completely healed, it has been fine for three months; since then I have cooperated with Mycroft to hunt down the rest of the Serbian network and their English connections. I returned because I am confident that there is no immediate threat to anyone’s safety now and I have missed being home.’ Sherlock finished his sentence with a melancholic look on his face, as if he wasn’t sitting on the sofa in his own flat currently.

John nodded. He wanted to sigh from emotional fatigue but he held it back lest it be misinterpreted.

‘I see.’ John contemplated how to continue but he decided that he was in no state to delve into deeper topics, so he chose a more practical one. ‘I am able to move in tomorrow. If you would like it, that is.’

Sherlock looked at him wearily, his exhaustion showing in his increased reaction time.

‘You don’t have to…’

‘I know I don’t have to, God damn it!’ John snapped again. It was frustrating to acknowledge that he could do nothing to restore his friend’s health, but it was even more frustrating that Sherlock was refusing to recognise John’s intent in its simplicity. His offer would have stood regardless of Sherlock’s injury – maybe the injury gave him a good excuse, but John was certain that it was not his primary motivation for being here. Even though he had been angry at Sherlock when he first saw him today, all he had felt was tremendous relief. Relief from the knowledge that the nightmare that has been plaguing him for two years has ended – Sherlock disappeared but also reappeared suddenly – John had no intention of letting him go. Not this time.

So he rephrased his answer.

‘I know I don’t have to stay here. You are perfectly capable of taking care of yourself. I would like to stay because I want my old room back. I want to go on cases with you again. That’s all. If you are still interested in pursuing that lifestyle, of course.’ John finished his sentence abruptly, because he started to become aware of how pathetic he sounded, like a lovesick teenager begging his ex to take him back. The similarity was striking.

John looked up at Sherlock hopefully and was relieved to see a slight smirk lurking on his face.

‘So do you offer to do all the shopping, cleaning and cooking as you did before I was invalidated?’ He flinched slightly at the word – his attempt at a self-deprecating joke made John smile in return.

‘Of course I do, you great git. Just like before.’ John sincerely hoped that they could go back to the way they were, although a thousand worries were eating at him. He knew he would have to be strong – not just for his own, but for Sherlock’s sake as well.

Sherlock nodded at him.

‘Go, arrange what needs to be arranged then.’ John came out of his contemplative stupor and went for his coat to fish his cell out of its pocket.

‘Right! While I am at it, I am going to order dinner. Any preferences?’ His voice was hopeful – this was something solid, something familiar, a familiar gesture from their past. Luckily, Sherlock engaged in the game.

‘I feel like Indian. You may order from anywhere you like, my knowledge of take-away places is not exactly up-to-date at the moment.’

‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll catch on.’ John said, feeling a little lighter. He mused while listening to the phone’s beep, the call being connected. Sherlock is still Sherlock after all. Nobody could be better equipped for re-learning things and readjusting to a severely hindered life – if anyone was able to do so, he would be.

 

 

_2 weeks later_

 

They end up not discussing Sherlock’s cruel words and accusations at all. John is too busy helping Sherlock to mind. It still sits in the pit of his stomach like a heavy weight but it feels surreal so John decides that it is probably for the best if he does not acknowledge it. Getting Sherlock to clarify holds the potential of further hurt or even more unanswered questions should he behave like his usual self.

John sighs and rubs his face. Sherlock should be home any minute now. He insisted that he wanted to visit Lestrade alone to talk about their recent case (well, the only case they had up until now, truthfully). Lestrade had mentioned something about testimonies, but John wasn’t sure. He was too damn tired to care.

He went to the kitchen and observed the evidence of his presence – the change he has brought about since he has moved in. He had brought Sherlock two one handed cutting boards which had vices in them so he would not have to hold the object – this made one handed cutting considerably easier. They had sat down on Saturday and made Sherlock’s whole wardrobe “one-hand proof”; meaning John had to remove several buttons and sew them on in different places to make it easier for Sherlock. The detective was grumpy throughout the process, but he said a sheepish thank you in the middle of the process so John knew that he was being difficult because he didn’t know how to express his gratitude. Nothing he wasn’t used to, he thought with a smile.

Sherlock had been getting more and more restless lately and John has finally found out why. Yesterday, John was watching telly – it was some James Bond film and a violin solo came on. Sherlock stood up from the kitchen table where he was inspecting something with his microscope and went into his room, slamming the door behind himself with a dramatic clash. John didn’t know what hit him at first; he felt quiet resignation creep up in him. Sherlock had been more irritable than ever, that was to be expected but he still wouldn’t have minded if he could have had his occasional peace.

John’s attention went back to the film and that’s when he realised: the violin! Sherlock was longing to play the violin, but he physically unable to act on his urge. Even though many things were easy to accomplish with one arm, playing the violin would be a two-handed task.

Unless… unless Sherlock got a prosthetic hand. It would still be less than ideal – Sherlock used to play with his right hand, but now he would have to hold the bow with his left arm, because manipulating the neck required a great deal of precision – something not even the most modern, tech-savvy prosthetic hands would be capable of.

Trying to learn to play with his other hand on the neck would be worth a try – at least it would give Sherlock something to concentrate on, to take his mind off his grim thoughts.

John didn’t waste any time in calling Mycroft.

‘Mycroft, I have an unusual request.’

‘I suspect that this request has a substantial financial component. Am I right, John?’

John cursed under his breath.

‘Yes-yes – that and it would need to be done as soon as possible. Sherlock needs a prosthetic arm.’

‘He already has one.’

John was dumbfounded.

‘What? He has never mentioned it.’

‘Oh, he does. He doesn’t like to use it, because he claims it is too heavy. Unfortunately, due to the site of amputation, which is rather close to the shoulder, the device is not working optimally. Sherlock had problems getting the elbow to flex. It might improve with time and practise, but we don’t know for sure.’

John smiled as he listened to Mycroft’s wild understatement. He could imagine how the trial went down – it was probably a miracle if Sherlock had not broken the device in temper tantrum.

‘Right’ John hesitated for a second, but decided to go ahead with plan regardless. ‘I have a special request – you have his parameters then, right? So we could request another prosthesis, a custom-made one.’

‘Why would it have to be custom-made?’ Mycroft asked, clearly intrigued.

‘It would need to be the optimal length for playing a violin. Slightly flexed, for easy manipulation. The material would need to be as light as possible – aluminium, maybe. And it should have an end which is ideal for holding a violin bow. Do you think that it’s possible?’

There was no answer from the other end. John congratulated himself on dumbfounding the British government himself.

When Mycroft finally answered, his voice was quieter.

‘I will see what I can do.’ He disconnected before John could have expressed his gratitude.

The prosthesis was delivered that afternoon, while Sherlock was away at Lestrade’s place. John couldn’t wait for his return – he was excited but a bit anxious as well – he was reasonably certain that Sherlock would grow to like the device in time, but he was also fairly sure that it would be a rocky path, not easily mastered.

Finally, at eight a clock, Sherlock stormed in.

‘Dinner?’ He asked abruptly, looking at John by way of greeting.

‘Hello to you too’ John said as cheerfully as he could. ‘I have ordered takeaway two hours ago. The leftovers are on the table, all you have to do is microwave it.’

John decided to extract himself while Sherlock was eating. He went upstairs for the box which contained Mycroft’s gift. He waited until a reasonable time has passed – concentrating on one task at a time helped reduce the frequency of Sherlock’s temper tantrums – then he made his way downstairs, with the box in his arm.

‘What is that?’ Sherlock asked as soon as he saw him.

John had passed the point of no return – he offered up the box to Sherlock who deposited it on the kitchen table and got around to opening it immediately.

‘It’s just a little gift- I thought of it, but it was Mycroft who actually organised the process, so I guess it is partially his merit as well…’ John felt more and more nervous as he waited for Sherlock’s reaction. When Sherlock saw the prosthesis, his look turned into one of confusion and then, in a matter of microseconds, into one of agitation.

 

_1 hour earlier_

 

‘Pay up, Sherlock’ Lestrade said, holding out his palm. Sherlock struggled to reach for his wallet.

‘To the point, as always.’ Sherlock said, sighing as he handed Lestrade the hundred quid he owed for losing the bet.

‘Well, you have no excuse now, I saw you bag the money the client gave you just hours ago.’ Lestrade’s joking tone turned serious in an instant. ‘I was right – I told you, you had misjudged John’s sense of loyalty. He moved back to Baker Street without even receiving an invitation from you.’

Sherlock snorted self-deprecatingly as he often did nowadays.

‘Yes, John did move back, because he just wants to be useful as always. I have misjudged the strength of his need to be occupied, better yet – to be close to danger. Happy?’

Sherlock was about to turn around and leave the office. He was shocked when Lestrade grabbed him and backed him against the wall.

‘Stop that! Stop that, or so help me…’ Lestrade took a deep breath and let go of him. Sherlock was still in shock form the suddenness of the gesture. It was completely uncharacteristic for Lestrade to lose his temper like this – though Sherlock knew he was also under pressure- he could tell from the state of Lestrade’s cuffs – dirty, marriage problems. He had moved out again.

Lestrade looked at Sherlock with a piercing expression on his face.

‘I couldn’t care what you think, but if you hurt John, so help me… I will make you regret it. You are an excellent detective, Sherlock, but you are completely blind when it comes to the simplest of emotions. John is devoted to you. He would do everything, anything to help you get better, to the point where he doesn’t mind if you make him miserable in the progress.’

Sherlock wanted to argue – he has not promised John anything. He was not actively trying to make his life difficult! John was looking for difficulty at every turn – he was the one who offered to help Sherlock re-model his wardrobe and re-design the bathroom and so on…

But then it came to his mind that he hadn’t seen John smile since the day he has moved in. John’s smiles, which used to be frequent, genuine and effortless were much rarer since Sherlock’s return.

Sherlock’s hand turned into a fist.

‘I’m sorry I am not all cheer and laughter! Yeah, living with one arm left is such great fun! It used to take me three minutes to get dressed, brush my teeth and eat breakfast - now it takes fifteen minutes. I just can’t do anything efficiently and it’s frustrating as hell…’ Sherlock felt a huge lump form in the back of throat and he had to struggle to continue. ‘And I have no idea why John puts up with it. Or how long he will keep putting up with it.’

Lestrade gave him a sympathetic look and gave him a pat on the shoulder.

‘I think you underestimate John’s determination and sheer force of will. But that’s not all he has – he also has an unhealthy obsession with you. Give him some credit. If you were a little nicer to him, you might be surprised how pleasant your lives could be.’

Sherlock did not believe him, but he didn’t object so he could get out of the office as soon as possible.

Sherlock kept thinking about Lestrade’s advice on the way home. The detective could not recall feeling as helpless as he did now ever before – he was genuinely terrified of what would happen if John left. If he left now, sooner rather than later, Sherlock might be able to adjust. But what if he left when they were friends again? Or worse – after Sherlock dared to speak about his stupid, insipid feelings of platonic love to John… No, Sherlock would not be able to cope with the rejection. He has always been in love with John, but he had been too afraid to show it. Now, with one arm, it was out of the question. He wouldn’t want John to be stuck with him anyway. No matter what John said, he knew he was nothing more than an enormous burden (perhaps he had always been).

John deserved a normal life. He deserved a wife with two arms; and many-many children and then grandchildren and pension and domestic bliss.

Sherlock made his choice – nothing would change. He would continue being his grumpy self and if John wanted an out, hopefully he would have the courtesy to ask for it. Soon.

 

_Present moment_

 

Sherlock stared at the custom-made prosthesis in his hand. It was very strange-looking, but it wasn’t hard to decipher what it was intended for – for holding a violin bow. John wanted him to play again – just like Sherlock did, he was yearning for it desperately, but how could he? With his non-dominant arm – even if it wasn’t mutilated, it would have posed a very difficult challenge to learn to manipulate the bow correctly, as it required extremely fine motor movements.

What did John say? That he has requested this. He had probably looked it up… the execution was Mycroft’s work, but the idea had been John’s. Sherlock felt an overwhelming sadness grip his heart at his inability to be truly happy for his gift.

‘It is…’ Sherlock started slowly, testing his voice, making sure it was even, not as shaky as felt. ‘This is marvellous. Thank you. I won’t be able to use it, but thank you, nevertheless.’

John’s cautious expression turned into alarmed in a second.

‘Why not? With practise…’

‘No, John. I have changed.’ Sherlock looked at him, challenging. He could feel that his nerves were crawling under his skin. He could feel that he was approaching his breaking point. John’s patience will end, soon. Good. ‘I have changed irrevocably, I am just not who I was before – I can’t be pleasant, I can’t be brilliant, I can’t do the things I used to do – I have become slow, a hindrance, a burden for everyone. I don’t know what you see in this, but you should…’

John interrupted him abruptly.

‘I have already told you why I am here – if you could just get it into your thick head – I don’t care that you behave like a total arse! I don’t give a damn about your massive self-pity! Because they remind me of how I was before I met you, after I was invalided home from Afghanistan. I thought I would never come out of it, but I found a new meaning for my life… I found you.’

John looked at him, brave John, stupidly brave, painfully honest, with that agonised, but hopeful look on his face. Sherlock felt his resolution break in that second. He felt tired and he had had enough of pretending. All of a sudden, he felt his frustrations, the insecurities of the past couple of weeks catch up with him.

‘What do you want me to say?’ Sherlock asked, waving ineffectively – feeling even angrier that he couldn’t even use both his hands to do that anymore. ‘I was trying my best… I tried not to hinder you, to make you leave - but you just won’t! How can you be stubborn that you won’t even let me send you away?’

Recognition bloomed on John’s face abruptly. And there it was. All of Sherlock’s efforts ruined. His usual selfishness has won out again – Sherlock felt sick and tired of it all. John tried to console him, but he didn’t want John’s consolation, he was not worthy of it, and it made him feel like a manipulative, pathetic crippled man – like the man he actually was…

John looked at Sherlock and he felt all the new information rush through his brain, patterns sliding into place – Sherlock’s rudeness, his constant hints at John moving on – he was really trying to make it happen. John looked up at the detective and saw that he was deep in his thoughts.

‘Sherlock, listen to me!’ John roared over the noise of the chaos in his head. ‘I don’t want to leave you and I am fairly sure that I never will - so would you please just – put an end to this charade? Please, don’t give me any more mixed signals, because honestly, I don’t know what to do around you lately. Everything I do seems to irritate you. No matter what I do, it never seems to be enough.’

Sherlock comes out of his stupor. Still in a slight shock from his own earlier declaration, he decides to go with what feels natural – and at the moment that is to follow John’s directions, so he nods.

‘I will try… I will even re-learn to play the violin for you. Even if I make both of our ears bleed first… I will try. Is that enough for now?’

Sherlock dares to look up at John and is baffled to find a pure, genuine smile on his face. His heart unclenches and he makes a promise to himself in that exact moment to try and bring this smile around as often as he can, for as long as he is able to, now and forever, even if all they can ever be is friends.

John nods in turn.

‘It is, thank you.’

 

 

_1 month later_

 

John felt almost deliriously happy when he heard Sherlock play. Granted, it was sometimes frustrating, but as long as Sherlock was trying, it kept reminding John of the progress they have made. And his skills did improve, as did Sherlock’s manner overall. He said ‘thank you’ a lot more and he almost never snapped at John if he attempted to help. He started to adhere to their old rules again, which was again, a blessing (foods and body parts just don’t mix well, thank you very much).

After two more successful cases, it seemed that Sherlock was much more content than he used to be. Some nights he would be sad or grumpy, but he had the violin to tease if nothing else helped. Somehow, even though the act must have been incredibly difficult and required a great deal of concentration, it worked, perhaps precisely for those reasons.

John couldn’t help but feel wistful sometimes. He always felt that there was something missing from their connection. It was hard to pinpoint and it was expressed mostly in little things – before the fall, Sherlock used to touch John much more often. He just had to regard for privacy. Even if it was just pushing John around or patting his shoulder or helping his coat off after a long night when his shoulder ached so badly he couldn’t have done it by himself… he missed those little touches of familiarity. Affection. Sherlock never joked about their relationship like he used to.

John just felt as if they weren’t as close as they used to be. He did not know why it happened or why he missed it at all – he was straight after all. Lately he hasn’t been interested in dating though. He just felt like being with Sherlock was enough. He never wanted for company, he truly felt like he could rely on Sherlock for anything – that’s what everyone wants, isn’t it?

And if he let himself to think about it, just sometimes, he wondered… what it would be like to kiss Sherlock. The thought was strange, but not repulsing. It sent a shiver down his spine, a quiver of anticipation.

Then again, maybe Sherlock’s cold demeanour had something to do with his body issues. John knew that Sherlock suffered from phantom sensation and phantom pain in particular. Luckily, it was much rarer now than it had been immediately after the operation. For the most part, the pains only acted up when Sherlock was in acute stress, in a response to his muscles’ tightening. John remembered that on one such occasion, he had been allowed to give Sherlock a neck massage. It had been brief, but Sherlock had claimed that the pain has improved significantly. John remembered Sherlock’s shoulders and neck in his hands – how tense he felt at first and how easy it was to coax him into relaxation. He wished he could have done the same with his mind.

 

\--

 

Sherlock felt closer and closer to slipping. It was amazing to have John back in his life truly – to rejoice in his company, to include him and John did smile a lot more. Which also had the dreaded side effect of amping up Sherlock’s desire to kiss him. Sometimes, he swore that it was as if John wanted it too. He had offered him massages and he was a bit more touchy-feely than he used to be – but that could easily have been a compensation due to the dry patch he had recently. Sherlock was not about to complain though.

Exactly two months after John had given him his new prosthesis, he decided to make his first official show with it – for the single most important person in his life- John.

He chose a Tchaikovsky piece – it was nice, short, well-rounded, with many flourishes John enjoyed. Sherlock had played this piece once in the past – on John’s birthday. His first and only birthday they have celebrated together so far – Sherlock intended to change that.

Sherlock never forgot how happy John had looked, how his eyes shined. He had to wipe a single tear from one of his eyes at the end as he said, with a grin on his face.

‘That was… brilliant. Simply brilliant. Thank you.’

Sherlock had played with his right hand then. Now all he had left to rely on was the stump of his left arm. The performance would be far from flawless, but he hoped that it would be recognisable at least.

He wanted it to be a surprise, so he did not tell John about it in advance.

As soon as John got home from Tesco’s with their groceries, Sherlock had helped him unpack and they made stir fries together. John looked a bit taken aback at Sherlock’s willingness to help, but he did not mention it, instead choosing to grace him with a warm, cosy smile, which he must have thought Sherlock couldn’t see. But he could and it made his heart flutter.

They ate in companionable silence. Afterwards, Sherlock ushered John to the sitting room, where he took a seat in his favourite armchair.

‘Just sit tight and listen.’ Sherlock said and got his prosthesis-harness on. In a minute, he had the violin in hand – John looked at him expectantly, eyes full of anticipation. He had a small smile on his lips, almost encouraging, and Sherlock felt all his anxiety drain out by it. He could do this. John believed in him, so he had to.

 

Souvenir d'un lieu cher. Tchaikovsky.*

 

Sherlock had to concentrate very hard on hitting the right notes, so he had no chance to judge John’s reaction, but judging by his silence, he was listening carefully. He had slipped a couple of times, but he managed to correct most notes, adding some improvisation when he made one or two honest mistake. Overall it sounded alright, even to his own ears. Something a 14 year old would play, probably, but not a 7 year old.

He finished with a high note and let the violin down slowly. He froze when he saw John’s face – it was wet with tears. Not just one or two, a whole lot. For a moment, Sherlock was panicked – he didn’t know why John was sad. That had never been his intention when he had planned this. John was supposed to be happy for his progress, why on earth would he ---

‘Was it alright?’ Sherlock asked, a bit shaky himself, dreading the answer.

‘Alright?’ John asked, laughed a short, slightly hysteric sounding laugh.’ That was magnificent! Beautiful! It was unbelievably good.’ He kept wiping away his tears and started to fiddle with a handkerchief, blowing his nose.

Sherlock was still a bit confused, but he felt warmed by the praise.

‘Good. It could have been better, but I am just getting the hang of it… thanks.’

Sherlock went to the kitchen to pick up a glass of water and in a moment of boldness, decided to caress John’s short, velvety hair as he passed him by. John made an audible noise. Sherlock froze in his tracks. John seemed to recover and realise what he has done and he looked up at him with wide eyes.

‘Sorry, I just… I am feeling a little raw.’

Sherlock swallowed audibly.

‘Me too.’ He rasped in his deepest voice and John made that noise again.

Sherlock felt a strong compulsion to lean down. He looked into John’s eyes and tried to judge his state accurately. This was perhaps the most important moment in his life – this was it, his chance, to make a move to progress their relationship beyond the realm of friendship if John seemed inclined…

Suddenly, a sharp phantom pain set in – it could have been from the nerves, could have been from his awkward posture – he had to straighten up to stretch and he tried not to moan in agony, but it was no use, as John must have seen his facial expression.

Sure enough, John jumped up.

‘Are you okay? Was that your…?’

‘Yes, just… give it a minute it will pass.’ Sherlock felt himself try to choke back his sudden anger at himself. He was so close to making a pass, finally, and he was almost sure that John would have reacted favourably… but now he was back to his doctor-patient mode and nothing was going to change that. Sherlock felt the pain spike up even more as his emotions wound him up even tighter and he couldn’t hide a wince.

‘Easy-easy…’ John murmured. He stood up from the chair he was perched on and placed a soothing hand on Sherlock’s hand which was gripping at his other shoulder.

Sherlock was startled by the unexpected touch. John smiled at him briefly, but luckily did nothing to retreat, instead he looked Sherlock in the eye daringly.

‘How about I give you a massage? Nothing extravagant, just a neck rub. It might help you relax a bit.’

Sherlock was still in pain so he didn’t have it in him to turn down John’s offer which he craved just as much or even more so than John may have suspected.

‘Alright.’ He said, trying to sound reluctant. It did nothing to spoil John’s cheer.

‘Right. Then sit on this chair please. Try to sit comfortably, you will be there here for a while.’

Sherlock settled himself down onto the indicated piece of furniture delicately, trying not to jostle his aching shoulder. It was still stinging, but not as bad as it had a minute ago.

John, ever careful, ghosted his fingers over Sherlock’s nape before actually touching him. It was a way of warning, and it served its purpose – it wasn’t startling when John finally got around to touching him. Paradoxically, Sherlock felt his heart rate elevate slightly, while all his muscles seemed to relax and unwind.

John was kneading his shoulders and neckline gently but firmly. It felt like he was a piece of dough (a very lucky piece of dough) being molded into the right shape, according to John’s desire. And desire it Sherlock did. It was astounding that such a simple touch could cause so many emotions. Sherlock felt comfortable, taken care of. At ease, where moments ago he was caught up in blind panic due to his own expectations. He longed to touch John back, but felt much more unhurried about it now. He couldn’t get himself to be anxious about it, not when John was giving him a massage and it felt so good…

Finally, John’s motions slowed and he withdraw, breathing a bit harder than he did before. Slight exhaustion.

‘Well, is it better?’ John inquired. Sherlock was temporarily at a loss, then he remembered that the massage was supposed to help the phantom pain. He had forgotten about that about as soon as it had started.

‘Mmh yes, thank you…’ He looked up at John from under his lashes, stirring slowly and stretching his limbs luxuriously. Suddenly, Sherlock felt the weight of John’s gaze and was caught up in his mesmerising eyes, full of affection and want. It couldn’t be mistaken this time. Still feeling languid and unhurried, Sherlock beckoned him

‘John…’

Even though he didn’t specify what he wanted, John seemed to know all the same. He leant down to him and their lips met in a chaste kiss. Sherlock expected it to end soon, but instead it turned into a languid, sensual kiss. John brought his hands down and cupped Sherlock’s jaw, which made him arch into the touch.

They parted slowly as the kiss had run its course and the need to breathe overrode their instincts. Sherlock still felt pleasantly calm, although more alert now. This heart was beating his throat and he couldn’t take his eyes away from John’s face, looking for signs of regret or disgust, hoping fervently that he wouldn’t see either.

John just seemed… hesitant. Where he had been confident a moment ago, he reverted to shy in an instant under Sherlock’s intense scrutiny.

John took a steadying breath and broke the silence.

“Was that… alright?”

Sherlock snorted lightly.

‘Alright? I am not an expert but I think it was – how would you phrase it? – Quite extraordinary!’

John smiled a bit at that.

‘So you also wanted to…? It wasn’t just me –‘ John trailed off, not daring to finish the sentence. Luckily, Sherlock finished it for him.

‘Yes, I wanted to. I have wanted to kiss you – for a very long time.’ Sherlock had almost said ‘for years’. Thank God he saved himself from total embarrassment.

John still looked at him contemplatively and tongue snuck out to wet his dry lips.

‘Does that mean you would like to be in a relationship? With me that is.’ At Sherlock’s blank expression, he hurried to clarify. ‘It’s not that it is necessary… I just… Well, I would be interested. But it doesn’t have to be now, it doesn’t have to happen at all.’

Sherlock felt the same insecurity he has been feeling for month (since his reunion with John) welling up inside him. He decided to be honest because fairly he was tired of his pretence and he was also fed up with John’s sad and angry expressions which always left him feeling guilty… Honesty would surely be the best policy. All his other attempts had failed so far.

And John had laid out his cards as well, hadn’t he? Sherlock had to do it – this was his chance to compensate – to correct all the hurtful things he has done to them and their friendship in the last couple of months.

It was harder to open his mouth than it ought to have been.

‘John… I do. I do want everything- anything you wish to offer. I don’t know why- how I can still be deserving of your affection, but I want to accept it, so I will, on one condition: you have to promise that you won’t stay with me out of a sense of obligation.’

John smiled a bittersweet smile.

‘I don’t know what has got that idea rooted in your head, but alright – I agree.’

Sherlock nodded, solemnly.

‘Good. Because I love you too much to attempt turning you away again. As much as that word can’t express the myriad things I think and feel about you – after careful consideration – I think I can safely say that I love you, John.’ Sherlock said, standing up shakily, looking at a slightly trembling John with a hopeful look on his face.

John seemed to be in a shock. Presumably, he was appalled at Sherlock’s choice of word – Sherlock himself would not have predicted that he would ever use the L-word in a non-mocking context – but here he was. It seemed like the suitable word to use to convey his meaning to John who was hopelessly sentimental.

Sherlock was starting to have second thought at John’s lack of response, but they were all wiped away when John grabbed him – akin to how he did when he forced his way back into Sherlock’s life, back into his flat – and pressed his lips against his much more violently than he has done before. Sherlock found that this was perhaps even more satisfying than the gentle version. Especially when John broke away and panted against his lips.

‘Yes! Yes, I love you too! Oh, God, Sherlock!’

And then Sherlock was being manhandled, pushed toward the door of his room, and he didn’t mind one bit. He was a bit surprised when John took him in his arms and lifted him up bridal style – though he really shouldn’t have been. John was a hopeless romantic after all. Sherlock felt an itch, a well-known phantom-sensation in his lost limb as he attempted to grab onto John’s shoulder. It was strange but not uncomfortable and he ignored it easily in favour of pushing his head against John’s neck and attempting to feel his heart rate.

The carrying ended too soon as John deposited him on his bed gracelessly but efficiently. For an awkward moment, John stood at the foot of the bed, looming over him.

‘Don’t you dare stop!’ Sherlock spoke in a low, dangerous tone. John obliged immediately, crawling onto bed next to him.

Sherlock did not particularly care what happened as long as their bodies touched and he could lick and suckle at every spot on John’s body. He helped John take his shirt off quickly and efficiently while John unbuttoned Sherlock’s trousers as well as his own. Soon, John’s hands where wrapped about both of them, stroking their erections as they lay on their sides, facing each other. They kept kissing and Sherlock was stroking John’s back up and down, squeezing his arse in a daring moment and humming with approval at the feel of the firm flesh under his fingertips. John hissed and sped their tempo up even more.

Sherlock felt himself get closer and closer to the edge, and he came suddenly, bucking up into the hot, wet touch of John’s hands and his cock. He vaguely heard John groan in ecstasy as he spent as well. John’s hands were sticky, the sheet was a mess, but Sherlock found that he didn’t care. He decided to enjoy the moment. For the first time since his life turned into hell five months ago he felt – completely normal.

Well, not normal. Better than normal, as he always had been – in his own extraordinary ways, as John would say.

Soon enough, John got up to get a flannel. He cleaned them both before sliding the cover over their naked bodies. Sherlock snuggled himself into John’s limp form, entangling themselves as much as possible.

‘There is one definite advantage to losing one arm.’ Sherlock said, smiling in dark humour. ‘My arm would be dead by morning if I attempted this pose.’

John couldn’t help a sleepy snort as he felt his lips being tugged up by the corners.

‘You are an idiot but I’ll admit – this does feel perfect.’ John said, voice turning soft, as he caressed Sherlock’s head with the back of his hand.

For the first time, Sherlock felt truly wanted. He fell asleep with a smile on his face and slept without any interruptions.

 

 

_1 month later_

 

They came out to everyone with unbelievable ease. Some of their friends had been surprised by the fact that they haven’t gotten together earlier – but all of them were clear in their support. Well, except Anderson. Sherlock did not expect any niceties from him anyway.

Their routine had changed slightly, mainly because John decided to move into Sherlock’s bedroom. Sherlock did not object because as he had discovered on their first night, John’s presence had numerous benefits – he slept better and his occasional night terrors had diminished in their intensity. Sherlock used to have strong sensations, bordering on phantom pain in the mornings, but he found that waking up next to John helped him distract himself from the unpleasant phenomenon. Objectively, Sherlock knew that the pain’s intensity was probably the same as it used to be, but it did not hold his sole attention any longer – he could observe a sleeping John instead, and sometimes, luxuriate in the opportunity of being able to share his body heat. He felt like a lizard, starving for sunshine – and John’s warmth always improved his body’s aches.

Of course, John wouldn’t have been John if he did not become a total mother hen at times.

‘No, John, I do not need assistance putting on my shirt. You had helped make these suitable for my independent use, or have you forgotten about that?’ Sherlock snapped at him as he betted John’s hands away for the second time that morning.

John scowled, but was only mildly offended.

‘Sorry I wanted to help you. How inconsiderate of me.’

It was Sherlock’s turn to grimace exasperatedly. Later on, as he went to brush his teeth, he smiled a little. Even though John would grumble about his rudeness a bit later, Sherlock was now certain that they would be okay – and that was the only thing that mattered.

They had their fair share of cases to keep them busy. So far, they haven’t had too many chases, but it was bound to happen sooner or later, as it did on a rainy November night.

John and Sherlock were hurling down the street trying to catch a grave robber. Their suspect took a sudden turn and ran into the direction of an ally. Sherlock sped up his steps and shouted backwards so John could hear him.

‘This is our chance!’

John followed him as fast as he could, though his breath was coming in ragged intakes and he seemed to be close to his limit. Sherlock had a good ten meters of head start compared to him, their target being just an inch shy of twenty meters ahead of him.

The alley was narrow and dark. The rain made the moonlight glitter on the slick surfaces of trashcans, making them easier to evade. Sherlock was confused as he ran into the pitch as he couldn’t see the grave robber. Then he looked up and saw that he was already starting to climb up the fire escape. He hesitated briefly before running toward it, consequences be damned.

John had just turned into the ally as well. He saw Sherlock running toward the fire escape and the robber climbing up on the ladder. Judging the situation quickly, he shouted:

‘Don’t, Sherlock!’ John knew that Sherlock would try to follow the man, but if he fell… The ladder’s steps must have been extremely slippery.

Sherlock did not listen to him, as usual. He had almost reached the fire escape when he tripped on a piece of brick which was nearly invisible in the dark. The slight tipping had upset his precarious balance. Sherlock tried to compensate by waving his hand, but his missing left arm made the task impossible. He fell on his face with a sickening crunch.

‘Sherlock!’ John hollered. He was crouched by his side in a matter of seconds.

‘Jesus, Sherlock, are you okay?’ John asked, lifting the detective by his shoulders. As he had suspected, Sherlock had a broken nose, but he had not lost consciousness and appeared to be uninjured otherwise.

‘Damn it!,’ Sherlock muttered, swearing uncharacteristically. ‘I’m fine! Go after him, quick!’

‘No way!’ John protested, slipping his hands under Sherlock’s shoulders to try and get him up. ‘You may have a concussion. And aside from that, I am in no shape to catch him…’ He felt silent as they both heard a loud bang rang out.

Sherlock’s eyes widened. He stood up and with John by his side, they went out of the alley to look for the source of the noise. Their grim suspicions were confirmed when they saw the body of the robber on the other side of the street. He must have slipped on the roof as his body was sprawled over the hood of a car parked nearby.

Sherlock appeared shaken, and he gripped John’s hand a bit firmer.

‘Do you think…?’

John shook his head.

‘I don’t know…’

John took his phone out and called Lestrade. He left Sherlock where he was and went to inspect the man’s body. John looked at him briefly and was shaken by the sight as it reminded him of when he had seen Sherlock after the fake suicide. He grabbed for the man’s wrist to check his pulse, but found none.

 

\--

 

Later after they had given their respective testimonies to Lestrade and Sherlock had been checked out at the hospital (which he did not object to, this time), they arrived home to Baker Street in silence. Neither of them felt jubilant.

Sherlock’s nose was bandaged. He must have looked stupid, but he couldn’t fathom to make a joke about it at the moment.

It was John who broke the silence at last, just as they were shrugging their coats off and John helped him remove his glove. John looked up at Sherlock, his pale grey eyes more piercing than usual, jaw set tight.

‘Sherlock…’ John’s voice trailed off and he looked away.

‘I know what you are about to say.’ Sherlock said, in a carefully measured voice. ‘You are right. I would have climbed after him, had I not tripped in my own foot and given a bloody broken nose to myself. I know, John… Just please… Don’t scold me about it now, because… I just don’t feel like talking.’ Sherlock turned and went to find his violin.

John followed him.

‘Who said anything about your nose? Jesus, could you put your vanity aside just for a second and acknowledge that you could have...’ John’s voice hitched again and he shook his head, as if he was having trouble getting his mind around the possibility of Sherlock’s death.

Then suddenly, his head snapped up and he looked at Sherlock with growing suspicion.

‘It’s not about vanity, is it? You don’t particularly care about your looks and you are clearly not stricken by the suspect’s death… God, don’t tell me, Sherlock. Please, don’t tell me that you are so upset because you accidently tripped and fell!’

Sherlock whirled around to face John, looking at him murderously.

‘It was not supposed to happen! It would never have happened if I wasn’t… if I wasn’t…’

‘What, for Christ’s sake?’ John intercepted angrily.

‘A bloody cripple!’ Sherlock shouted, punching the wall in his fury. He must have regretted it instantly, judging by the pained look on his face. John’s felt his heart clench and he regretted that he had pushed Sherlock to finish his sentence a moment ago.

‘That’s not… Is that really how you view yourself? How can you value yourself so little?’ John asked, feeling confused and out of his depth. Sherlock was avoiding his gaze resolutely.

‘I am never going to be the same, John. You can’t deny that.’

John nodded slowly.

‘Yes, that’s true. I had hoped that you may become a better person because of it. I had hoped that maybe you would have some regard for my feelings – every time when you prove how little you value yourself, your own life – it kills me a little inside, Sherlock. Because I can’t imagine surviving your death – but your hurt pride is obviously more important than my concern over your near-suicidal inclination! Please ignore my sentimental display completely!’ John finished his rant angrily. He spun on his heels and went up to what used to be his room before they had moved in together in Sherlock’s bedroom. The door slammed shut after him.

Sherlock stood, dumbstruck, then, to try and dissolve the tension, he kicked the wall, but all he accomplished was putting a dirty footmark on it. Needless to say, it did not help.

\--

The air between them was icy for days afterwards. Sherlock tried to pretend that nothing had happened, but it was hard when John always seemed to be in such a bad mood. It spoiled Sherlock’s mood as well.

Finally, when he could not bear it anymore, he decided to confront John about it. It wasn’t as easy as he had expected it to be because frankly, he couldn’t see any other hope at this point.

‘John’ He said, after breakfast which was statistically speaking John’s favourite time of the day. ‘Could we just forget about that argument?’

John’s gaze was fixed on his. He crossed his hands and appeared to be waiting for something. _Oh._

‘I promise to try and be less reckless in the future.’ Sherlock said, sounding almost completely sincere.

John seemed to unwind a bit at after that.

‘Do you mean that?’ John asked, voice tight.

Sherlock managed to not roll his eyes, although just barely.

‘Yes! I keep my promises. I do not wish to see you so stressed or sad in the foreseeable future.’ Sherlock blushed slightly. He hoped that he haven’t been preposterous, admitting that.

John seemed unfazed.

‘Don’t do it for me. Do it out of respect for yourself. You are very lucky to be able to do everything you used to do. Hell, you have even mastered playing the violin – again! Could you be a bit more grateful? Cherish what you have?’ John spoke in a reverent tone which made Sherlock’s chest contract almost painfully.

John was not simply talking about his body, he knew as much. John held him so dear that he wanted to keep him, Sherlock forever by his side – and he wanted to be assured that Sherlock intended to stay there. That he would survive for John. John shouldn’t have worried, but it couldn’t be helped. Sherlock felt warmer, as he stood up and embraced John, unlacing his stubbornly crossed arms with ease.

‘You know that I would never leave you, don’t you? Not even death can do us apart.’

He felt the tug of John’s smile against his cheek. Sherlock turned solemn suddenly as he remembered how things were in the beginning, after his return from the throat of death.

‘John, I want you to know that I deeply regret having behaved cruelly toward you after my return. It was childish and disrespectful of me. My attitude was inacceptable. I hope you can forgive me in due, time, and I promise to treat you in the way you deserve – to take care of you to the best of my abilities.’

John’s eyes were sparkling as he looked up at him.

‘I have already forgiven you, but thank you regardless. I did not expect that from you… You – ‘ John seemed to want to say something but in the end, settled for holding Sherlock even tighter than he did before and murmuring the four letter word into Sherlock’s ear over and over again.

Sherlock felt pleasantly warm and he intended to take advantage of John’s closeness after days of him neglect and dismissal.

‘Bedroom?’ He asked, in a hopeful voice.

John nodded fervently and clutched him even tighter.

‘Yes! God, yes!’

‘I want to try it – now.’ Sherlock said, feeling confident all of a sudden as John’s blatant desire. A delicious shudder ran through John’s spine.

‘Are you sure?’

‘I took a shower earlier this morning.’

John’s eyes widened.

‘You manipulative little tart!’ He batted at Sherlock’s shoulder playfully. Sherlock didn’t try to hide his grin.

‘I was merely hopeful…’

The next moment, the ability of speech escaped him as John had plastered his hand onto his fly and had put delicious, even pressure onto his most private parts. John looked into his eyes and spoke in a low tone.

‘Let’s not let it go to waste then.’

Sherlock was only too eager to obey him. He helped John while John made quick work their clothes. Soon they were both lying on the bed, naked, Sherlock on his front, spreading his legs without hesitation, although his cheeks had a sheen of rose colour to them.

They had experimented with John’s fingers before, but they had not had actual sex yet. Neither of them was in a rush about it, and this encounter was no exception. John was taking his time, peppering kisses along Sherlock’s inner thigh and then lower, over his sack. Wet, sloppy kisses which held the promise of more without actually granting it. In a particularly cheeky moment, John placed a nice bite on Sherlock’s left cheek. Sherlock whined.

John decided to have mercy on him. He spread the gorgeous arse in front of him with his hands and started to lick right at Sherlock’s centre. The rosy opening twitched, clenched and relaxed under his ministrations.

‘Oh, John…! Yes! More!’

Sherlock wouldn’t have been Sherlock if he wasn’t bossy in bed too.

John indulged him, pushing his tongue deeper, and applying firmer pressure. Sherlock felt slightly stretched, but it was a glorious feeling – like he was being liquefied by something hot and sinewy. He struggled to rut against the blanket beneath him – he would have only need a little bit of stimulation to his cock in order to reach that elusive high…

John noticed his attempts and clamped down on his thighs even harder, practically immobilising him. Sherlock forgot about his intent and decided to enjoy John’s tongue-fucking instead. Soon, he became impatient.

‘I am ready! More than ready! John! Hnn..! Do it!’

John broke away in a stupor. He grabbed the lube from the bedside table and poured a generous dollop onto his hand. He pushed one finger into Sherlock’s body carefully, trying to be as clinical about it as possible, because he could tell that Sherlock was aroused enough already. After he had pushed a second finger in, the fit became much snugger and he grazed against Sherlock’s prostate unintentionally. Sherlock trashed, trying to increase the stimulation.

‘Now, John! Please!’

The word rang out beautifully. It was such a rarely used word for Sherlock. John smiled evilly – he decided to be a bit cheeky.

‘Please what?’ He asked, crooking his fingers just so.

Sherlock moaned.

‘Please, fuck me, John! I need to feel your cock in me!’

John couldn’t resist such a nicely phrased request. He quickly slathered some more lube onto his cock – wincing at the cold sensation, which did nothing to diminish his rock-hard erection but took the edge off a bit. A good thing probably. He did not want to shoot off right after pushing into Sherlock.

John leant forward and kissed at Sherlock’s nape, then licked a long stripe down his spinal cord. He was positioned on his front, but John decided to perfect it a bit.

‘Lift your rump, please.’ He pushed a pillow under Sherlock’s crotch. Sherlock pushed himself up onto one elbow, looking at John impatiently.

‘John, if you don’t…’

He could not finish his sentence, because John had chosen that moment to breach him, finally. It was exquisite how easily Sherlock’s body opened for him, accepting him inside. John could not hold back his groan at the feeling of the tight squeeze around his cock. He could feel Sherlock tense a bit and relax soon afterwards.

‘Alright?’ He murmured, licking and kissing at Sherlock’s neck carefully.

‘Mhh… yes.’ Sherlock gasped, pushing back on John’s cock, so it was fully seated in him. John did not need any encouragement. He set a hard rhythm soon after, yanking Sherlock back onto his cock by his hips. Sherlock was soon on his hands and knees instead of laid out, but he did not protest. His right arm was keeping him up fine, combined with John’s guidance.

‘John… I need!’ Sherlock whined.

John looked at Sherlock’s back and realised by its strong curvature that he was close, but he needed more. He needed manual stimulation to be able to climax.

‘Oh, sorry…’ he said, reaching under Sherlock’s body with one hand. He tugged on him in a good rhythm and he could feel Sherlock getting closer and closer, but at this rate, John knew that he would reach completion sooner than Sherlock, so he let him go instead.

‘No…’ Sherlock protested, moaning and grunting shamelessly as he started to rock back onto John’s cock even harder to make up for the loss of stimulation. John’s eyes rolled back into his head; at this rate, he really was going to come any second now.

‘Jesus, Sherlock… Touch yourself!’ He instructed, as he yanked Sherlock’s upper body upwards. This way, Sherlock was kneeling, though not entirely straight – he was still hunched forward but John’s hands on his torso kept him from tumbling forward. Sherlock did not hesitate. As John slammed into his body brutally, he stripped his cock equally quickly and came with a violent shout. John stiffened behind him, and spent himself in him, which felt exhilarating – the throbbing of John’s cock heightened Sherlock’s pleasure as well. He felt utterly wrung out and sated.

John helped lower him onto his front carefully. Sherlock felt his hand cramp and his phantom limb was throbbing in sympathy, but it was a pleasant sort of soreness and it left him as soon as he was able to calm his breathing. The comfort of John’s warmth was all he needed to sink into serene state of mind. John withdrew from his body carefully. Sherlock shuddered at the strange feeling and chuckled a bit.

‘Hey!’ John chided him playfully. ‘No laughing. I feel like an old man… God that was fantastic, Sherlock. Absolutely divine.’

‘Hmmm…’ Sherlock hummed in agreement. ‘We will have to repeat it later. I think I have found my favourite way of wringing myself out. Even better than a chase.’

John laughed softly, hugging Sherlock close to his chest.

‘Do you feel like sleeping a bit more? You can if you like. I will go, call Sarah to announce that I can’t go in today. I have been brought down by a huge doze of laziness and affection.’ John said, snuggling his face against Sherlock’s hair.

It felt right.

As they lay together, basking in the afterglow, neither of them spoke, but they could both feel the message in the perfect entanglement of their limbs. Their shared breaths sweetened the air and helped them both slip into a deep, dreamless sleep.

In those moments, Sherlock realised that he had found his missing parts and he would never need to feel incomplete again. And if he ever did, John would be there to remind him of the bond they shared – patiently and reverently, over and over again.

Sherlock was not a religious man, but he felt himself become overwhelmed with a sense of gratitude, and he wondered if there is a design in this world after all.

 

THE END

 

**Author's Note:**

> The short piece Sherlock had decided to play for John:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a7N_nwTY01I
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading this story, please, don't hesitate to share your thoughts and feelings about it. I live for comments and kudos! :))   
> I appreciate constructive criticism, so feel free to type out whatever you did or did not like about this fic. 
> 
> See you at the end of my next work! ~~  
> Happy New Year everyone!!!


End file.
